a gift with a price
by wreckageofstars
Summary: Miscommunication is the soup of the day, and Obi-Wan Kenobi doesn't fully understand the power that he holds.


The supply closet in his and Anakin's small quarters, still half-unpacked with the contents of his last dwelling, still a bit un-lived in, unloved, was cramped and dark and filled with dust. The musty gloom was lit by the quiet glowing hum of a data-pad, soft blue reflecting glassily in eyes that looked up at him in quiet shock.

"There you are," Obi-Wan Kenobi said, relieved, unsurprised. He crouched down to better meet his wayward apprentice's gaze, head pounding, back aching. The side of his forehead stung, still, from where a piece of shrapnel had grazed it. Two weeks on a mission in the Outer Rim hadn't done him any favours. He'd fantasized, in his brief moments of consciousness on the way back home, of spending a few days relaxing, meditating, upon his return. Held the brief, faint hope that the weeks he'd been gone had allowed his apprentice time to settle more into his new life, into his studies. He should have known better.

"You're back," Anakin said hoarsely, the adult-sized multi-tool clutched in his small fist lowered softly to the carpeted ground. Scattered bits of droid parts littered the floor. He held back, like he had been taught, stopping himself with a clearly concerted effort from flinging himself forward into his mentor's arms. Stopped. Stared, critically. It was an odd look on so young a face. "You're hurt."

"And you're ill," he said, taking in the blotches of colour high on his apprentice's cheekbones, the glassy, tired eyes. "And yet somehow we've both managed to find ourselves on the floor of a rather dusty supply closet."

The eyes flicked down. A trickle of something – shame, perhaps? Though that wasn't something one picked up from Anakin Skywalker except on very rare occasion, in his admittedly limited experience – leaked out into the Force, muddied, too warm. Something fearful that fizzled and sparked.

"You've had people crawling all over the Temple looking for you this afternoon," Obi-Wan said mildly. "Master Che was quite worried, you know. She said you disappeared right out from under her." An impressive feat, and not one most ten-year old padawans could have so easily accomplished. Though he wasn't about to tell Anakin that.

"'M sorry," came the mumbled reply.

"I was worried too." He'd never been in the habit of admitting such things, found it – difficult, still. Certainly Qui-Gon had never been quite so direct. Obi-Wan had always known how to read between the lines – Anakin, he'd been coming to learn, slowly, painfully, had no such ability. "I had thought the two of us could spend some time meditating together this afternoon, upon my return. Imagine my surprise when on my way to fetch you Master Che informed me that you had been missing since lunchtime."

Silence. No guilt, though. Only a face, flushed and wary, settled into something that was not quite a glare. He was missing something.

"Anakin," he said. "Why did you hide from Master Che?"

Anakin only stared back at him, chin jutted out defiantly, hackles raised. So unpredictable, the way he flitted from one mood to the other. Obi-Wan wished he could pinpoint what exactly he had said to prompt it. "I'm not," he said, finally. "I wasn't – she was going to –"

He broke off, deflating.

"I'm not too sick to work," he said quietly. Resigned in a familiar way that never failed to make Obi-Wan feel slightly ill. Anakin never flinched away from potential reproach, like one might have expected a former slave to. He only ever stilled, waiting, grim expectation settling over his face. Somehow, it was worse. "You don't have to send me away."

Ah. That was what he'd missed. Of course. Obi-Wan adjusted his crouched stance slightly, knees aching, chest tightening with something he couldn't quite place. Quelled the feeling of hopeless inadequacy crawling up his throat.

"Your studies aren't work, Padawan," he explained, firmly but not unkindly. Not for the first time, though the previous clarification clearly hadn't stuck. "And Master Che wasn't going to send you away. She was going to help you."

"She took me out of my mathematics class," Anakin pointed out dubiously. "For _no reason_. I'm fine, I promise. You don't have to send me away." Small fingers twisted in the hem of his tunic, still waiting for him to grow into it. His forehead scrunched, skepticism etched in the lines that formed there. He sniffled, a bit miserably.

"That would be the aforementioned help I was telling you about," but the dry tone of voice was understandably lost on someone so young. "You aren't expected to attend classes when you're ill, Padawan." He forgot, sometimes. He wasn't – _good_ at this, good at teaching, good with children. And Anakin took everything so literally –

"I don't want to be a bad investment."

"A bad –"

Investment. A rather unexpected word from a child who was still functionally illiterate in Basic, despite the best efforts of his instructors. Obi-Wan's gut twisted unpleasantly.

"You aren't, Anakin. You aren't an – investment, at all, let alone a bad one."

"If you're too sick to work," Anakin said, matter-of-factly, talking slowly, as if it was Obi-Wan that was somehow missing the point. "If you're too sick to work, that's a bad investment. You get – you get sent away. Because you're not useful anymore. But you don't have to send me away. See? I can still work."

The scattered droid parts on the ground made more sense now, at least. Obi-Wan leaned against the door frame of the closet, suddenly exhausted.

"You don't have to be useful here, Anakin," he said tiredly, quietly. "We'll take care of you regardless."

The kind skepticism radiating at him from the smaller form in front of him was greatly unnerving. Like Obi-Wan was somehow out of the loop, as if he somehow had much to learn about how the world actually worked. It was an expression that had no business on the face of a ten year old.

He supposed that Anakin Skywalker was not very much like most ten year olds.

"I can see that you don't believe me," he said. He paused, considering. Dust floated in between them, catching in the beams of late afternoon light filtering in through the window blinds. His head pounded. "Why don't we come to an agreement? I promise not to force you into Master Che's more capable hands if you promise to leave the droid parts be and come rest for the remainder of the day."

That dubiously furrowed brow was going to be the end of the both of them, Force help him.

"Anakin," he said again, not quite pleading. The ground was shifting underneath him, disconcertingly. There was only one definitive way to put an end to the conversation quickly, and the way the world was starting to lazily spin meant that time was likely of the essence. He sighed. Blamed the concussion and opened his arms in reluctant invitation. Swallowed back an 'oomph' as his chest was obligingly barrelled into, as a face that was too warm buried itself in his armpit. Anakin, he thought with a spark of tired affection, patting his apprentice's spiky-haired head awkwardly, had been some kind of cephalopod in another life. Something – clingy, with more limbs than it probably had needed.

"You won't be sent away," he said again, quietly. "No one here will ever harm you."

"D'you promise?" The voice rose, muffled, from his armpit.

"I promise." _I will never let anyone harm you. Not the Sith, not the Jedi_. Not ever.

He could feel the wavering through the Force, as his apprentice considered, and wondered if Anakin was capable of grasping the strength of his own conviction. Closed his eyes in relief when the tension in the air snapped, as it warmed.

"Well, okay," Anakin said, voice still muffled, seemingly content to stay where he was, the ambiguous-sounding reply delivered so easily that despite the phrasing it came across as utterly convinced. There was his answer.

No one else – no other Jedi, at least – held Anakin's trust so easily, so quickly. Skepticism was practically an art form where he was concerned, every action, every task, every motive, questioned to the point of exhaustion. Like he didn't believe anyone could possibly want the best for him – except for Obi-Wan, and even then then it was rarely instant. It was a source of frustration for many, Obi-Wan included, occasionally, but there were times instead -

\- when it felt like a gift. Something hard-won that he was obliged to treasure.

He leaned a little harder into the side of the closet's wall, soaking in the quiet shadows, Anakin still tucked determinedly under his armpit, seemingly having realized that he wasn't going to be instantly removed and determined to make the most of it. It was likely a ridiculous-looking tableau, one that pushed the limits of what was generally considered an acceptable display of attachment, but his head still ached and his day had been long. Qui-Gon, at least, would have forgiven him.

 _I made you a promise_ , he thought, knees twinging, though he didn't move. For the moment, at least, everything felt – almost peaceful.

He understood better now, than he had then. He watched one of the long shadows cast by the evening light draw closer to them and felt one of Anakin's hands twist in the fabric of his tunic. Long shadows. They weren't yet consumed by them.

But they would be, if they remained where they were.

"Come along, my very young apprentice," he said, standing up slowly and repressing a sigh as Anakin refused to let go, dangling off of him like a shabbily-clothed cephalopod. "Hmm," he pondered, playing along. "I don't seem to remember acquiring this odd-looking growth. I do hope it enjoys listening to Mon Calamari opera."

Anakin's face emerged from his armpit with an expression of undisguised horror. "You _wouldn't._ "

"Look at that," Obi-Wan said, feigning surprise. "It speaks. And I certainly would – I've been away for two weeks, and in the meantime I've missed the live broadcasts of not one but three. Think of all the culture we'll encounter."

Said culture tended to last around four hours and often delved into obscure and convoluted facets of Mon Cala history. The expression on his apprentice's face was not _precisely_ enthusiastic. Obi-Wan bit back a smile.

"If said growth felt at all inclined to put on a pot of tea and then _rest_ for the remainder of the evening, I might be similarly inclined to let it watch an hour of competitive racing instead."

The speed at which Anakin managed to detach himself was really remarkable – he'd forgotten the dexterity of the truly young. Blue eyes, glassy in the evening light, stared up at him, eyebrows raised.

"You mean it?" He could hear the 'wizard' on the tip of his apprentice's tongue, feel the grateful enthusiasm colouring the Force, warm and terrible, if only because it forced him into a state of unacceptable fondness.

 _I made you a promise._

Obi-Wan smoothed out the fabric of his tunic and tucked his hands deliberately into his sleeves, dignified once more.

 _I will not fail you. I will never lie to you._

"Of course," he said. "Of course I do."

* * *

Just something short and sweet. Cross-posted to ao3. Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought!

\- W


End file.
